That thought, that ever present in the day, That in the night more vivid still appeared, When all things round in sweet sleep seemed to rest:
Thou, restless, both with joy and misery Didst with thy constant throbbings weary so My breast, as panting in my bed I lay.
And when worn out with grief and weariness, In sleep my eyes I closed, ah, no relief It gave, so broken and so feverish!
How brightly from the depths of darkness, then, The lovely image rose, and my closed eyes, Beneath their lids, their gaze upon it fed!
O what delicious impulses, diffused, My weary frame with sweet emotion filled! What myriad thoughts, unstable and confused,
Were floating in my mind! As through the leaves Of some old grove, the west wind, wandering, A long, mysterious murmur leaves behind.
And as I, silent, to their influence yield, What saidst thou, heart, when she departed, who Had caused thee all thy throbs, and suffering?
No sooner had I felt within, the heat Of love’s first flame, than with it flew away The gentle breeze, that fanned it into life.
Sleepless I lay, until the dawn of day; The steeds, that were to leave me desolate, Their hoofs were beating at my father’s gate.
And I, in mute suspense, poor timid fool, With eye that vainly would the darkness pierce, And eager ear intent, lay, listening,